


Appetite

by LookingForDroids



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/F, Food Porn, Implied but not graphic vore, POV Second Person, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25242241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookingForDroids/pseuds/LookingForDroids
Summary: An encounter with an ophidian shopkeeper and her tempting wares.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14
Collections: Multifandom Drabble 2020





	Appetite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applecore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/gifts).



Flesh, the woman in the emerald green hat tells you, is memory.

There is something unusual about the way she moves, a shimmer like scales along the back of her gloves, but never mind that. The platter she offers is heaped with delicacies: the tongues of serpents and larks, meat cut from the flank of an aurochs hatched from dreams, pale slices of uncooked fish drizzled in dark peligin sauce. Other things you don’t recognize.

You take a morsel of fish, try it tentatively. The taste is salt and bitterness, overwhelming; cold waves surround you and clouds churn overhead, in a far place and a forgotten time. 

You return to yourself blinking seawater from your eyes, unless that wetness is tears. Had that been real? This is: the woman holding out a sliver of what she tells you is tiger’s heart glazed in solacefruit, a trophy taken from a vanquished foe. Her gloved fingers are stained dark with juice as she slips them between your lips.

Smoke. Iron. Incongruously, honey. You are very hungry. You feel a little unlike yourself.

The woman lays her hand against your cheek; it’s cold, until your touch warms it. _Are_ those gloves, with the dazzling diamond patterns? You think if she wanted to, she could open her mouth and swallow you whole.

You ask. She smiles. 

In her curtained back room, a divan waits, and she pulls you down. Her fingers find the lacings of your corset; her kisses find your neckline, your jaw, and at last your mouth, and as she lifts your skirts above your hips, you taste plum wine and copper on her forked tongue.

“I should like to remember you,” she murmurs, drawing back.

After that, you recall only the dark tunnel of her eyes, her parted lips, her throat.


End file.
